As a second year student, I have never experienced an Illinois sans Red Lion, but apparently it opened for business just months before I arrived for orientation. Keeping this fact tucked in the back of my mind I slowly inched forward in the alien world of graphic tees and "button-up, stripy, going-out-to-get-laid shirts".(Seriously, click that link) My jungle guides on this quest are a team of seasoned Lion veterans. The first thing I noticed about the bar its size. From the exterior the building doesn't appear to be spacious, but upon entrance I realized that it is simply one, large open room. Another puzzling aspect was the decor. Large pennants and flags drape from the steel rafters giving the impression that I had just walked into a Dark Age Mead Hall. I half expected to see Grendel's arm hanging from the rafters.
As a waded through the swamp of people the lights dimmed and the music became louder, as though the bar was only allowed a certain amount of power to split between the lights and the sound system. As I was bushwhacking my way, an attractive waitress offered me a shot from her tray. I declined, but took note on the apparent ease of purchasing at this fine establishment, The bar is arranged like a NASCAR track with the bar as the infield, so naturally the party-goer field exhibits vector curl. After completing one full lap, I found the urge to use the facilities. Upon walking into the water closet, I started to become more aware of the industrial scale of Red Lion. The Men's Room was a circular chamber with urinals lining the entire wall making it the most efficient restroom I had ever seen.
Into my second lap, I had lost all of my jungle guides but two. These two were anxious to get up on the dance floor to "rub our 3/4 boners into some sloot's ass" The term dance floor is a bit misleading as there is no actual floor or actual dancing. The dance floor comprises of a plywood stage and 4 tables. Dancing is taken to mean standing and drunkenly swaying back and forth with a member of the opposite sex. A more accurate moniker for this area would be the groping tables. I was charged with the task of plowing us through the ever growing crowds. Upon arrival at the other end of the groping tables, I found myself alone; the two had been engulfed by the ever-rising tide of humanity.
I found myself alone in a hostile environment. Desperately I searched for someone, anyone I was familiar with. In a last ditch effort, I looked in the outdoor
The solitary walk back proved to be most enlightening for processing my Lion experience. Everything about the bar was designed with one purpose in mind; casual sex. Lion is a product of the raucous, contemporary hook up culture and was designed for maximum effect. Like the Chicken Pot Pie Machine from Chicken Run, Lion delivers astounding efficiency in facilitating hook ups. The low lights obscure what it is you're grinding on. The loud music makes conversation near impossible. The constant stream of cheap alcohol keeps everybody loose. Patrons circulate in loops until finally they bump into someone with whom to "dance". The whole process repeats itself hundreds of times each night. People flock to Lion every weekend with the confidence that a hookup is less than 3 beers and 30 minutes away.
Eplilouge:
I was relaxing on a couch in my dorm, when one of the people I lost at the bar strolls down the hall, girl on his side. We make quick eye contact and he only says one word while nodding his head. "Lion".
